


Path to Paradise

by howelleheir



Series: The Fallen White Doors [2]
Category: Star Trek: Deep Space Nine
Genre: Alien Gender/Sexuality, Alien Sex, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Competence Kink, Face-Fucking, Facials, M/M, Masturbation, Non-Human Genitalia, Oral Sex, Penetrative Sex, Religious Guilt, Time Travel
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-28
Updated: 2018-02-27
Packaged: 2019-01-06 09:21:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 7,760
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12208365
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/howelleheir/pseuds/howelleheir
Summary: What's happening?” he demanded. And then he saw it, Damar's shouted explanation seeming to fade out in favor of his own accelerating pulse. Directly in front of them, a distorted ring of light surrounding utter blackness.An event horizon.





	1. Rendezvous

**Author's Note:**

> Not strictly a sequel to Reign From Beneath, but they are definitely interrelated. And like that one, I'm intending for this to be a plot-heavy excuse for world building and weird dicks. Read RFB first for maximum enjoyment.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The header sucks on mobile, but it looks great on desktop. Sorrrrry.

 

Weyoun never _could_ let go of something broken. His quarters on the _Tenak'talar_ were a testament to that -- even though a large part of his collection had been lost in the evacuation of Terok Nor, he'd managed to save a few things, and he'd never been one to hinge the whole on one part. Here and there across two quadrants, he'd stowed a crate or small storage container, more than enough to line all the shelves of his quarters with curiosities. Each item seemed connected by a golden thread to a memory, and he didn't need the thing to be whole or functional for it to serve its purpose.

So it was with Dukat.

His daughter's death had opened up a crack in him which had widened with the passing months. He’d clearly lost his mind -- disappearing for days or weeks at a time, always coming back manic and babbling about Bajoran superstition, his eyes darting around the room at phantom visions and the cadence of his voice almost drunken with messianic fervor. Anyone else in Weyoun’s position would have disposed of him after his first failure, let alone a second or third. But it was so much easier to take him back to his quarters, run fingers over the contours of his skin, and follow that golden thread to every time his predecessor had done the same.

“I’ve missed you…” Dukat murmured between feverish kisses, and Weyoun reminded him --

“No, you haven't.”

Dukat pulled away by a fraction. “That's right,” he said. “You _are_ a new one, aren't you?”

“Thanks to Damar,” Weyoun laughed humorlessly.

Silently, he allowed himself to add a bitter, _And you._

It was true, wasn’t it? Everything that had gone wrong went back to the evacuation. If Dukat had gotten ahold of himself, had made it back to the ship, then Damar wouldn't have succeeded him, wouldn't have dared to arrange the fifth Weyoun’s _accident,_ let alone had the opportunity. The sixth wouldn't have been activated, his defect never discovered.

He could have been born in a time of peace, long after the war had been won and the Federation and the whole of the Alpha Quadrant had bowed to the Dominion.

Instead, he was falling back onto his bunk, half-dressed and passive under Dukat's touch at first, but his will never held out. It was only minutes until a white-hot static in his brain crowded out any lingering resentful thoughts. Even after two years, the sensation still disturbed him -- losing his grip on his composure, becoming a being of pure feeling and need -- but he yielded to its urgency nonetheless and relaxed, letting his knees fall apart with a low sigh as Dukat slipped into him like a needle into flesh, carving out its place, taking its due of blood with the promise of pleasure to follow, if only the flesh would give a little blood and sigh through a little pain.

It was harder this time than before -- Dukat was still treating him like a well-used lover, a body that had been fitted to him with practice, but this body was new, and though the mind it housed knew how to breathe and when to bear down, a certain amount of discomfort was inevitable.

He didn't have to endure it long before the pain sweetened, his breath hitched and stuttered, and his back arched, each deep thrust wrenching a low cry from his throat. Dukat swallowed the sound in a suffocating kiss. Weyoun's skin broke out in a sweat as a wave of heat washed over him, and a feeling like his blood was thickening in his veins. Dizzy and senseless, it took him a moment to notice the turbulence as the ship’s warp field fluctuated, but the distant sound of voices -- the clipped, terse cadence of _hadawa_ being spoken by his men -- drew his attention. Something was wrong. There was an edge to the sound that almost approached fear.

“Stop,” he said, voice still thick and breathless, twisting away and straining toward the sound.

Dukat looked more than a little dangerous, eyes sparking crimson in the half light, until the ship shook again, harder this time, with the unmistakable grinding of an unplanned drop out of warp.

They sprang apart and dressed hurriedly as the alarms rang out and the emergency indicators flashed.

Weyoun was ready faster, and so he took the corridor at a sprint ahead of Dukat. They borded the lift, Weyoun gripping the handrails to steady himself against another lurching wave of turbulence. As soon as he crossed the threshold onto the bridge, he shoved past Damar to the navigation array and took the viewer from the First.

“What's happening?” he demanded. And then he saw it, Damar's shouted explanation seeming to fade out in favor of his own accelerating pulse. Directly in front of them, a distorted ring of light surrounding utter blackness.

An event horizon.

The display’s readouts told him that they were already caught in the black hole's gravity and their engines were barely slowing their descent.

A panic jolted through him, not just at the thought of dying -- that was bad enough on its own -- but at the certainty that, if he died here, his successor would have to start from scratch. The implant that, at the moment of death, would send a subspace signal containing all the memories and knowledge of an unbroken line of seven Weyouns to the eighth would fail, its transmission lost. A truer death than he had ever experienced.

He considered self-termination. It was an unpleasant prospect, and not guaranteed to protect the transmission, but it had better odds than nothing. He reined in his fear and resolved to wait. Every Dominion ship was essential to this war, and if he could save his, he was obligated to try, even at the cost of seven generations of knowledge.

They didn't have long. The stars around them were already tinged with blue.

“Lock all weapons on the gravitational center of the anomaly,” he ordered. “Recalibrate the deflector array for a single focused burst in the same direction.”

“Weapons locked, deflectors ready,” said the First after a moment.

“Prepare to cut power to all systems on my command, divert all to weapons and fire at maximum duration, then all to deflectors, fifteen-second burst, then twenty percent power to aft shields and attempt a jump to maximum warp.”

“Understood.”

_Founders, protect me._

“Initiate maneuver.”

The bridge went dark and silent, illuminated only by a faint glow from the weapons station. A second passed, two, three, then there was an ascending whine and an almighty roar as the weapons fired with the entirety of the ship's power, shaking the bridge so hard that Weyoun stumbled back into a solid body, whose hands gripped and steadied him.

“I've got you,” Dukat whispered into his ear, so low that only Weyoun could hear it. He would have been furious if he could feel anything but terror.

The rattling settled as the weapons failed, the last light on the bridge blinked out, and the deflectors initiated with a deep _boom._

Weyoun’s own heart was fluttering arrhythmically with anticipation, so he counted the seconds by Dukat's steady pulse, loud to his ears by their proximity and in the silence of the bridge. The engines sprung to life, a deafening grinding noise permeating the ship, and then a jolt as the inertial dampeners lagged behind their sudden jump to warp.

They had escaped.

“Reduce speed and restore power to all systems,” Weyoun gasped, breathless from adrenaline. Dukat gave his shoulder a squeeze and moved away as the lights flickered on, and Damar laughed triumphantly as the viewers followed, showing their trajectory away from the grip of the black hole.

Weyoun turned to look at it, fading behind them, and all the blood drained from his face.

Following his gaze, Damar turned, squinting into the viewer. “What the hell is _that_?”

It was like a ripple on the surface of space itself, a funnel of lensing waves rushing out from the black hole and gaining on the ship. He'd never seen anything like it. Never even heard of such a phenomenon. It came closer and every reading on the viewer went haywire, the navigational overlay and chronometer flashing random strings of numbers.

“Shields!” he managed to shout before the first wave struck the hull.

There was a high-pitched ringing as everyone on board dropped to the floor, and a loud hiss as the hull began to crack. Weyoun had landed beside Dukat, who was bleeding from the back of his head.

That was the last thing he saw before another wave hit. There was a rushing in his ears and a strange sensation like being pushed through thick mud.

Then everything blinked out.


	2. Orion Wormwood

He woke feeling displaced and with a sense of dread, as if he'd had a terrible dream, but he remembered nothing. Any dream was rare, let alone one that left such an impression. He felt as though this weren't the first time he'd had one like it, but couldn't recall any before this. Slowly, the fear and disorientation faded. 

He was in bed, rested in the crook of Dukat's arm. Not on the  _ Tenak'talar _ . On the  _ Naprem. _ Why had he thought…?

It must be the stress of the war getting to him.

Absently, he ran his fingers through Dukat's hair, eyes fixed on the slow rise and fall of his chest. 

Dukat stirred, murmuring, “I had a strange dream.”

“So did I,” said Weyoun. “I should go. The Founder will expect my report.”

Dukat pulled him closer in response, shifting onto his side and slipping a hand between his thighs. “Stay,” he said.

“I can't.” 

He hated the note of reluctance and desire he could hear in his own voice; even after only a handful of their little encounters, he should have mastered these appetites, but Dukat seemed adept at stirring them up in him. Were it not for Dukat's requisite vulnerability, Weyoun would have requested reassignment by now.

“At least have something to drink before you go. Tea?”

Weyoun nodded his surrender and chewed his lip pensively at Dukat's retreating back. His skin was glossy and dark around the ridge of his spine, not dull and pale like it had been at their last meeting. There was something...endearing about it.

Dukat handed Weyoun a steaming cup from the replicator, a concoction made with Orion Wormwood that had a strongly bitter flavor even to Weyoun's tongue -- the closest thing to kava milk he'd been able to find in this quadrant, and the only thing so far that he'd been able to taste. It was apparently quite intoxicating, though the only effect it had on him was a mild increase in alertness. He sorely needed it; the time on the replicator’s screen indicated that they'd only slept for a little over two hours.

“So, we have our treaty,” Dukat mused.

“And signed articles of incorporation,” added Weyoun over the rim of his cup.

“And if the Cardassian government refuses to accept them?”

Weyoun raised an eyebrow. “The people will see the first ships dropping supplies, and they'll see the seal of the Dominion on crates of food and medicines. If the current regime has the gall to resist, they won't be met with much support.”

“Even so,” said Dukat, “with or without the support of the people, they could cause trouble. How can you guarantee they won't fire on your ships?”

“I've been involved with the incorporation of forty seven planetary governments into the Dominion,” Weyoun said, pausing to drain his cup. “Only two have turned back at this stage. In three weeks, you will broadcast an announcement of our relief efforts just before the Dominion fleet arrives in Cardassian space. At the same moment, each of seventy five key officials will be under observation by Dominion operatives. If they attempt to undermine the peaceful transition of power…” He let the implication hang in the air as he rose. “Now, I really  _ must _ make my report.”

As he was dressing, he felt Dukat approach from behind, his hands coming to rest on his waist. “Three weeks,” he murmured, ghosting cool lips over the edge of Weyoun's ear. “That's quite a long time.”

“Just long enough for the necessary preparations,” said Weyoun, turning and fastening his coat. “After that, I'm all yours.”

It was always amusing to see what a particular turn of phrase could do to Dukat, how his eyes narrowed and darkened, the slight setting of his jaw and flaring of his ridges, just at a few words. It gave Weyoun the kind of thrill he normally only felt playing a new game and winning. 

He endured Dukat's parting kiss with a smile.

 

Weyoun's high spirits didn't last long. As soon as he transported to the  _ Tenak'talar, _ he felt a heavy, sick dread at the thought of facing the Founder. 

These days, he could scarcely look her in the eye. His methods were common enough -- expected, even -- but it was always strictly a means to an end. To actively seek out sexual intimacy for it's own sake was beyond taboo, and every time he spoke to the her, he had the overwhelming sense that she  _ knew.  _ An irrational fear, to be sure; if the Founder knew of his defect, she wouldn't have allowed these talks to continue under his supervision.

“Report,” she said curtly as Weyoun entered the ship's strategy room, arms spread in deference. 

“Dukat’s faction has agreed to the latest terms. The treaty, articles of incorporation, and the plans for implementation are being uploaded now for your review.”

“How long were you on Dukat's ship?” she asked. 

Weyoun's stomach knotted at the question. It had been a stupid risk, staying with Dukat for hours after the talks were finished. The transcripts would show the time discrepancy. An hour could be explained away -- Cardassians loved to talk, after all. But three missing hours were a problem. It was either tell the truth or feign ignorance. He chose the latter.

“I- I'm not sure,” he said.

“Our chronometer says nine hours,” she said. “But ninety minutes ago, sensors detected a series of temporal disturbances between the  _ Tenak'talar _ and the  _ Naprem.  _ All systems are operating normally at the moment, but I'm concerned there may be unforeseen consequences when we traverse the wormhole.”

Weyoun breathed a sigh of relief. The disturbances would explain the missing time. He'd gotten lucky. “I'll have my men begin a particle decontamination cycle before we leave the nebula.”

“There is one other thing,” she said, rising from her seat. “Diplomacy is not a skill my people possess, so I think I must seem rather cold to you.”

“Not at all, Founder,” Weyoun interrupted. “You-”

She raised a hand to silence him. “Do you know how long we projected it would take to incorporate Cardassia?”

Weyoun knit his brows. “I wasn't given that information.”

“Twenty two months from first contact,” she said. “After your first meeting with Dukat at Kama'ara, that estimate was revised to eighteen. That is why I approached you, and why you were given this assignment. Now, six months after that, Cardassia is at a stage we didn't think possible in so short a time. I want you to know that, however infrequently I express it, I  _ am _ impressed with your work.”

Weyoun blushed, clasping his hands in gratitude. “Only by your guidance, Founder.”

She gave a half-nod. It was difficult to tell if it was appreciative or dismissive.

“That will be all.”

Weyoun went straight to his quarters, exhausted and miserable, and collapsed into his bunk, suddenly aware that it wasn't remotely comfortable. 

Three weeks. It was a short time to gather the supplies, the ships, and the troops necessary for such an undertaking, but the Dominion was known for its efficiency. 

In spite of the scale of the task ahead, he was grateful for a change of scenery. Six months in that nebula, waiting days or weeks between visits from Dukat, spending long hours debating the finest details of the treaty, and then coming back to the ship and reporting to the Founder, reviewing the transcripts and suppressing a blush knowing that  _ here _ Dukat had kissed along his jaw, and  _ there _ his hand was creeping up his thigh -- it had been grueling.

But the Founder would return to her homeworld now that the treaty was signed. 

He felt guilty to be so relieved by the prospect. Surely he should  _ want _ to be in the presence of a god? And yet, he could hardly wait to be rid of her, to have his ship to himself, to know that no one was looking over his shoulder.

To sleep wherever he pleased without fearing the repercussions -- that was the long and short of it.

He sighed and shifted on his bunk, willing sleep to come, but in spite of the burning of his eyes and the bone-deep fatigue, he couldn't slow the racing of his mind. It was hours before he fell into a shallow, fitful sleep, broken here and there with sudden panicked wakefulness and more strange dreams.


	3. Central Command

The first ships had entered orbit around Cardassia Prime a little over a week ago. Officially, Dukat had broadcast his declaration of incorporation into the Dominion and the transfer of power was complete, but there was still much to be done. Thankfully, it was safe enough for key operatives to make landfall.

As he stepped off of the transporter pad in the Cardassian capital, Weyoun heard a voice call his name from among the milling crowd. He recognized it instantly, as familiar to him as his own -- she had been with him from the very beginning, her progenitor and his, from those first terrifying moments of consciousness before either of them had any use of speech or anything but the comfort of the other's presence to make sense of the world. He hadn't seen her since the Second of his line had died, but he picked her out of the throng of Vorta, Cardassians, and Jem’Hadar easily.

Kilana.

When he reached her, he took her hands and rested his forehead against hers. 

“I never expected to see you in diplomacy,” he laughed.

She shrugged, “I took the assignment I was given. The Founders seem to think my experience in reconnaissance and interrogation will be more useful here than in the field. What about you? I heard you spent a few days as a host in Kama’ara. Keiyan said you were a natural.”

“I wasn't a host,” Weyoun corrected. “I spent  _ one _ night there getting these negotiations off the ground.”

“Still,” she said, “you have a way with these Cardassians. I saw the transcripts of the negotiations. You've got Dukat in the palm of your hand. Don't try to tell me you're not using  _ some _ of the same tactics.”

Weyoun flinched. Kilana was always so attuned to interpersonal dynamics -- she'd read what was between him and Dukat just from a transcript.

She touched his shoulder, her smile turning from sly to sympathetic. “It takes time,” she said. “To get used to it, I mean. Something that...invasive. It took years for me.”

“Things were much simpler,” said Weyoun with an unsteady sigh, “when I could honey the trap and walk away.”

“We can't be reluctant to get our hands dirty,” said Kilana, her voice oddly quiet as her eyes searched his face. “What puzzles me is that you don't seem at all reluctant to  _ do _ it, but you've never mentioned it in your reports.”

Weyoun laughed. “I didn't think it was necessary,” he said. “The Cardassians’...carnal motivations are already well-documented.”

All at once, Kilana's smile fell. He knew the change in expression, had felt it on his own face more times than he could count, had worn it every time diplomacy had failed and no more pleasantries could be spared. “You always did lie well,” she said. “I almost thought I might've been wrong.”

“Kilana--”

“I  _ will _ find out what you're hiding. And why,” she said. “Until then, I would tread very carefully.”

And just like that, she turned on her heel and disappeared into the crowd, though she left behind a weight on Weyoun's mind that didn't leave him all through the day and well into evening, when he received word that the Central Command had finally ceased their resistance, and Dukat would be waiting for him in a room near the council chambers.

* * *

 

Weyoun was met at the entrance to the capitol by the First of the unit tasked with transition security, a particularly stony-faced Jem'Hadar who introduced himself as Itan’krava.

“Follow me,” he said tersely, scarcely waiting for a response before he turned and strode through the gate and across the courtyard. Weyoun had to take the path at a half-jog to keep pace. 

He nearly collided with Itan’krava’s back when the soldier came to a sudden stop just inside the main doors of the complex.

“Security check,” he said, motioning for Weyoun to go ahead. 

There was a station blocking the inner door, one of the field security checkpoints hastily erected in key areas during the incorporation of a planetary government. He tapped his wrist against the sensor and the gate lifted, a curtain of green light sweeping over him as he passed through. The transition team was being thorough -- and with good reason. The Cardassians were well-known for impersonating foreign agents via plastic surgery and genetic alteration, but they couldn't very well fake a full set of Dominion security implants.

On the other side of the checkpoint, the building’s lobby had been converted to an impromptu base of operations -- just by counting the supervisors sitting at portable workstations, there were no fewer than fifteen units on site, and freestanding signs pointed the way to Security, Planning, and Acquisitions offices down the maze of corridors. Weyoun paused at Acquisitions sign. He'd been in the same uniform for days on end now.

“If you don't mind,” he said to his Jem'Hadar shadow, “I'd like to make a stop on the way up.”

* * *

 

He emerged from Acquisitions with a newly-replicated uniform and directions to an empty room to change in. To his annoyance, Itan’krava followed him inside. Vorta field uniforms were designed to be difficult, if not impossible, to get in and out of without assistance -- a reminder of the Jem'Hadar's subservience and the Vorta's dependence -- but Weyoun had learned to dress himself efficiently enough. 

Itan’krava, however, seemed insistent on observing tradition; as soon as the door slid shut behind them, he was unfastening Weyoun's coat, and Weyoun didn't dare say anything to stop him. All too late, he remembered what was in the inner pocket, along with his emergency transponder -- a little piece of his collection that he'd plucked from a shelf in his quarters on a whim. His heart raced as Itan'krava paused and looked from the object to Weyoun, his expression unreadable.

He'd acquired it six months ago in Kama'ara -- the sheath of a scale from Dukat's back, shed into the sheets they'd shared that night. A little token he could worry with his thumb and recall the unshakable feeling of danger and destiny that had wrapped itself around those hours.

Before Weyoun could formulate an explanation, Itan'krava had stowed the sheath into the pocket of the fresh coat. If he thought anything of it, he kept it to himself. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This got long, so I'm splitting it up. Should have one or two more chapters after this (and the next one is mostly sex).


	4. Daybreak

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know I said one more chapter, but I wrote a lot of sex, so the next chapter will, for real, seriously, I mean it, be the last one.

On the top floor of the building, the council chambers were a stark reminder that this place used to be a palace. The dais that held the long table well above the level of the hall proper still bore the indentation of a throne, long since torn out after the reign of the last Cardassian Emperor. Weyoun smiled and thought that perhaps Dukat’s first act as head of the Cardassian government would be one of historical restoration.

Behind the dais, a set of wide stone steps led to a low balcony overlooking the hall, and at its center, a set of double doors and a pair of stern Cardassian soldiers on either side. That would certainly be where he found Dukat. 

The soldiers eyed Itan'krava warily as they came up the stairs, but stepped aside to allow Weyoun to tap his wrist implant to the doors’ sensor. They slid apart, revealing a dim and cavernous chamber -- part living quarters, part war-room. Dukat and a handful of his inner circle were gathered around a low table, seated on a plush divan. Weyoun recognized most of them from his visits to the  _ Naprem. _

“We'll continue this discussion another time,” said Dukat, rising from his chair, his eyes suddenly locked on Weyoun. “Leave us.”

They looked incredulous at their sudden dismissal, Damar in particular, but didn't dare defy him. Weyoun waved Itan'krava away along with them, though some nagging part of him thought he might be better off with a chaperone.

Almost before the doors shut behind the departing entourage, Dukat advanced on Weyoun, stood close, ran rough knuckles lightly over his cheek, seeming to savor a moment of silent anticipation.

“So much to discuss,” he murmured. “But all that can wait...can't it?”

This was somehow different than all the times before, now that they weren't in the cramped confines of a ship, not adrift in the vastness of space or cloistered in the surreal, calculated comfort of a Kama'ara brothel. The room was huge and open, brightening as the yellow-orange dawn shone through the tall windows. Weyoun felt exposed. Vulnerable. 

He had only the span of a few shallow breaths to contemplate that vulnerability before Dukat sprang into action, forceful hands pressing him down onto the divan. What had taken Itan'krava several minutes to accomplish in solemn ritual silence, Dukat undid in seconds, stripping Weyoun with careless, bruising haste. He knelt on the floor between his spread thighs, kissing from his knee to the crease of his hip, his teeth scraping over tender flesh at intervals along the way.

Weyoun relaxed and let his head fall back onto the cushions, a soft moan ghosting past his lips as Dukat's mouth found its target, tongue working slowly over him, teasingly, hands squeezing at his thighs. Weyoun could feel his face growing hot with a deep flush, his vision clouding over with a blue haze…

“Stop!” he gasped, pushing Dukat away and squirming back, legs clenched against the deep pangs borne of his sudden absence. 

Brows furrowed, Dukat reached out with a cautious hand to steady him. “What's the matter?”

Weyoun shook his head. “I just...need a moment. If you don't mind.”

It had been happening more and more in the past month, and now it was a near-constant struggle to keep in check. If he let his guard down for even a moment, that strange energy would creep into his body and manifest in some unpredictable, horrifying form.

At first, it had been just like the telekinetic energy he'd seen in other Vorta, those  _ granted _ the power,  _ allowed _ to use it. Spheres or bolts of blue light that issued from him, gone as quickly as they'd come. 

Not so anymore. Lately, it was anyone's guess whether he might suddenly hear the nearest person's thoughts as clearly as if they'd spoken aloud or find himself hovering four inches from the ground. So far, he'd managed to keep his secret to himself with pure force of will, and failing that, hasty explanations, and on one occasion, vaporizing one of his men with a disruptor rifle. He shuddered just thinking about it.

“I'm sorry,” Weyoun said, shaking his head and gathering himself back into smiling, cool composure. It had never felt so foreign.

“No,” Dukat purred, a probative hand stroking at his thigh, intimate, but cautious. “Just...tell me when you're ready.”

Setting his jaw, Weyoun nodded and pulled Dukat back over him, unfastening his armor and letting it clatter to the floor. He could control it. He  _ would _ control it.

Dukat drew him into a deep kiss, catching his wrist and pulling it downward, between his own legs. Weyoun's eyes went wide; he was finally used to Dukat touching him, but this was new. Masturbation wasn't exactly an approved recreational activity. He gasped when Dukat pushed against two of his fingertips, pressing them into his body. 

“Go on,” said Dukat.

Weyoun had never felt much curiosity about that particular part of himself. Though his species was inquisitive by design, there were certain things he was fine leaving unexplored. But something about the look on Dukat's face and in the dark, breathless cadence of his voice stirred a need in him. He kept his eyes fixed on Dukat, studying his expression -- eager and predatory -- as he shifted to give him a better view as his first two fingers slid in to the knuckle.

“Good…”

With a quiet moan, he began to move, stretching himself like Dukat always did before fucking him, twisting slowly in and then out again, all the while watching Dukat's eyes rake over his body.

“Relax,” he purred, rubbing the tension from Weyoun’s thighs. “There's no reason to hurry. That's it…”

Weyoun let his eyes fall shut -- a rare indulgence -- and sank into the sensation. Dukat’s hands, warmer in his native climate than he'd ever felt them, tracing a firm path across the creases of his hips, and his own, probing deeper as his muscles gave to allow it. 

Slowly, a vision faded in over the darkness of his shut eyelids, his body from above, back arched, mouth open, a deep flush in his cheeks and across his chest; and a second set of thoughts settled in, a richer, more demanding arousal that fit neatly underneath his own. He didn't have the willpower to stop it.

He withdrew his fingers, gripping Dukat's wrists with both hands and pulling him closer. “Fuck me.”

Dukat threw his weight against Weyoun’s grasp, pinning his arms above his head with a low laugh. “Is  _ that _ what you want?” he asked.

“Please…” His hands clambered over Dukat's remaining clothing, desperate for the feeling of flesh on flesh. He shuddered when he finally felt it, a body pressed flush against his, corded muscle beneath coarse skin, strong thighs parting his own.

And then finally,  _ finally _ the feeling of being stretched and filled, the hollow ache he'd felt, satisfied by a searing ecstasy.

He was barely aware that he was making any noise at all until Dukat's hand clamped over his mouth to muffle his cries with a wary glance toward the door where, undoubtedly, the guards still stood. Weyoun bit back the sound against the flesh of Dukat's palm, each movement edging him closer toward breaking skin and drawing blood, but Dukat didn't seem to mind.

The minutes stretched on in a delirious, half-coherent haze, until a sudden quiet fell over him, everything focused on the building heat that was gathering deep in his belly, his breath stuttering and nails raking over the armored surface of Dukat's back, until the thread holding him together snapped, and every muscle went rigid against the sheer force of blinding release. It lingered, agonizing, for longer than it felt should be possible, and then faded out, leaving him boneless and gasping for breath.

Almost before the last spasm had coursed through his limbs, Dukat had withdrawn, shifting up to straddle his shoulders and press the slick, swollen head of his cock against his lips, engulfing him in their commingled scents, a base, animal smell that sent a sharp aftershock shooting through him. 

As he began to suck teasingly at it, the strong bitter note, apparent even to his tongue, told him that Dukat was painfully close, so he relaxed his jaw and tipped his head to open his throat, allowing him to take it in almost to the twin knots of thick muscle that, at the peak of his arousal, were straining at the rim of his vent.

Dukat didn't have the patience to let Weyoun do the work himself; he gripped him by the hair, thrusting shallowly into his mouth with a deep, shuddering growl until his fists clenched into the fabric of the divan and Weyoun’s hair. 

He pulled back as climax tore through him. It was a reflexive courtesy, though unnecessary given that Weyoun had no gag reflex to speak of, and it only left his mouth full and face dripping. 

As soon as he was capable of opening his eyes, Dukat chuckled appreciatively at the sight, and swept his thumb over Weyoun's cheek, pushing a few stray droplets to his mouth and spreading them over his lips.

His smug smile transformed into a more perplexing expression as he swung a long leg over Weyoun's body, shifting away onto the floor. He reached absently toward the table and picked up one of the cloth napkins left from an earlier meal, held the back of Weyoun’s head, and wiped his face. It was tender in the sort of paternalistic, infantalizing way that, if not unique to Dukat, was certainly his calling card. 

Weyoun got up onto shaking legs and crossed the room to the wardrobe. Dukat obviously wasn't quite settled yet -- the clothes inside didn't belong to him. There were no drab military uniforms, nothing quite like he'd seen any Cardassian wear. They were elaborate and colorful.

He wrapped himself in an ornate robe, embroidered in blue and green and gold, its train pooling on the ground. 

“It looks good on you,” said Dukat, helping him tie it at the waist. 

“Does it? I never can tell,” Weyoun remarked, running his fingers over the beading on the sleeve. “I thought it seemed eccentric. The previous head of state must have had very unusual taste in clothing.”

Dukat laughed. “Not at all.  _ He _ never took his uniform off, even to sleep. But  _ this _ -” He straightened the tall collar. “-belonged to the last Emperor. After the revolution, this chamber was sealed off. Officially, it was in the interest of historical preservation, but actually, the unified factions couldn't agree on who would use it. There are four other rooms almost identical to this one on the east and west sides of the hall, but they don't look down on the dais.”

“Fitting that  _ you _ should be the one to reopen it again,” Weyoun said. Dukat seemed to take it as a compliment.

Weyoun watched him as he pulled his uniform back on, admiring the long parallel scratches his fingernails had etched into Dukat's ribs.

“I want to talk to you,” he said after a moment, still fastening his bracers, “about Terok Nor.”

“It's a priority, if that's your concern,” said Weyoun.  “But it never hurt to attack on two fronts. Why don't we give Captain Sisko a call?”

Dukat threw him a skeptical look. “You think he'd surrender the station?”

“Not a chance,” he said bluntly. “But the Federation might, if they sensed an imminent threat. He’ll have to report the communication.”

Weyoun followed Dukat to the desk and perched on the ledge of the window, watching silently as he initiated the transmission and waited for an answer. This little exercise might not be productive in terms of securing the terminus of the wormhole, but if he knew Sisko, Dukat would come out of the exchange enraged and primed to follow the plans the Dominion had already set in motion, regardless of the cost. And Sisko's attention would be on Dukat and not the Founder who had infiltrated his station. 

The comlink trilled, and Sisko’s voice came through the speaker, cold and terse. “Dukat.”

“Please, Captain,” Dukat said. “Show a little respect. You are talking to the head of the Cardassian government.”

Weyoun was used to seeing Dukat in the capacity of an ally and at leisure, but it was fascinating to watch him negotiate with an enemy. For all his swaggering, there was also an air of true confidence, the bearing of a man who was comfortable in his position and unwavering in his convictions. 

Weyoun could scarcely listen to the conversation -- he was focused on the shift in Dukat's posture, the threat buried in his genial tone. He'd seen a thousand leaders have a thousand exchanges just like this one, but in this case out of all of them, it wasn't the political subterfuge that interested him, it was the man, not a means to an end or a resource to exploit, and in that moment, no matter how dangerous the idea was, how heretical, he couldn't bring himself to feel guilty.

“Either surrender the station, or I'll take it by force. The choice is yours.”

“If you want to retake this station, Dukat, you are welcome--”

Dukat ended the transmission with a sharp tap to the console.

“He's nervous,” Weyoun remarked, taking a seat across from Dukat. “He's good at hiding it, but I could hear it in his voice.”

“He should be,” said Dukat. “The Federation will never defend the Bajoran system. Not against the Cardassian and Dominion fleets.”

Weyoun opened his mouth to caution against overconfidence, but at that moment, the door chimed, and a moment later, Damar came through. He looked Weyoun up and down with a startled expression.

“Playing dress-up, are we?”

Weyoun faltered. The Emperor's robe had been a convenient choice at the time, but he had failed to consider the optics, given the current political situation.

“Did you need something, Damar?” Dukat asked, a warning edge to his voice. 

“You have a visitor,” he said tersely. “Briefing room three. Might want to get changed first.”


	5. Aberration

Weyoun fastened his coat on the way to the briefing room. Damar hadn't given him much information, only that another Vorta, one with high security clearance if he'd made it this far into the building, had asked to speak with him.

He didn't recognize him. That alone was troubling, but then there was his appearance. He wore his hair in the traditional, conservative military style, and his uniform colors suggested a respectable rank. In every way, he seemed to be an upper-level field supervisor, probably the commander of a scientific installation. Perfectly ordinary. And yet there was something in his face that seemed wrong, uncanny. His eyes were too bright, and there was something strangely  _ alive  _ under the surface of his face. 

“Good morning,” he said.

Weyoun gave a halting, “Hello,” and moved toward a chair, giving the stranger a wide enough berth to keep an eye on him.

“My name is Morau,” he said, folding papery hands in front of him. “I'm a researcher with the Institute for Genetic Improvement. It's an honor to meet you. I'm very interested in your progenitor’s work.”

Weyoun nodded. “Thank you. But I'm sure you didn't come all the way from the Institute to pay me a compliment.”

Laughing reedily, Morau plucked one of the little paper-wrapped candies from the bowl on the table. “No, you're quite right,” he said, flattening out the wrapper and popping the candy into his cheek. “I wanted to ask you a few questions.”

Weyoun's obliging nature clashed with his anxiety, but manners won out. “Certainly.”

“Are you aware,” he started, pulling a disk from a case on the chair next to his, “of the Second Shi Mar Experiments?”

Weyoun’s brow knitted. “They’re a hoax.”

“You of all people should recognize propaganda when you hear it,” said Morau. “Your progenitor’s research was promising. It vastly improved trait selection in the cloning process, virtually eliminated physical defects. And yet he was steered away from genetics. Why?”

“Because he was needed-”

Morau inserted the disk into the tabletop interface. “Because of this.” The files flickered to life, projected into the air between them. “He was reconstructing the genomes of extinct species, including ancestors of the Vorta. His research revealed certain inconsistencies in our genetic history. He was shuffled into diplomacy before he could do more than scratch the surface, as I'm sure you remember. But there were others who noticed.”

“And they resurrected a pre-modern Vorta, who could see through walls and move ships with his mind,” said Weyoun flatly. “I've heard the story. It's a fantasy. It's true that our psionic traits are artificially limited,  _ for a very good reason.  _ The greater the degree of psionic activity, the greater the degree of mental instability. An individual with that kind of ability would be otherwise completely nonfunctional.”

“You're doing fine,” he said. Weyoun's heart skipped a beat. “And you've looked through something rather more substantial than a wall, haven't you?”

“What are you implying?” Weyoun asked.

Morau tilted his head, bemused smile playing at the corners of his mouth. “A month ago, I  _ felt _ the universe change. Little ripples running through everything, imagine my surprise when I followed them to their source...and I found  _ you _ . Pious Weyoun. Only in his fifth iteration and already such a legacy. Trusted by the Founders themselves with their most delicate assignments. So competent in his work that it's almost like he can  _ read minds. _ ”

“You're not well,” said Weyoun, fists clenched at his sides. “You should let me call the Sector Overseer. She can help you-”

Weyoun flinched when Morau pulled something else from his case and set it down hard on the table.

A statuette, some sort of idol, ancient Bajoran by the design and anatomy. At the sight of it, his pulse picked up. Although he couldn't rationalize it, it filled him with dread.

 

_ The seventh. _

_ A hurried coupling in his quarters.  _

_ Pain. _

_ Faint voices shouting urgent orders. _

_ Eyes that threatened with a sickly scarlet light.  _

_ The  _ thing  _ that had possessed a broken man, demanding its sacrifice.  _

_ Loud alarms and flashing lights.  _

_ Void.  _

_ A haze of blue around the stars as the singularity warped their light. _

_ Blood. _

_ Silence. _

 

Weyoun came back to reality with a gasp. The dream he'd had, the one he couldn't remember, was suddenly as clear as a memory. He could still smell the burning circuitry.

It wasn't until he'd calmed his ragged breath that he realized that the room was empty. Morau was gone.

“Playback surveillance,” he said. “Briefing room three. Last five minutes. Main screen.”

The footage appeared on the wall in front of him. No trace of Morau, just himself, sitting in silence, staring straight ahead.

“Back five minutes.”

The same.

“Again.”

Nothing.

“Again!”

Nothing.

“Back one hour!”

“--in his work that it's almost like he can  _ read minds _ .”

“You're not well. Let me call the Sector Overseer. She can help you-”

A dull thud, and Weyoun froze. Morau gathered his case, leaving the idol and the disk on the table. “Look over the files,” he said to the catatonic Weyoun. “See what they've done to us. If you want to make it right, I'll see you in Shi Mar.”

He had sat, for eighty-seven minutes, trapped inside his own mind, remembering things that hadn't --  _ couldn't _ have -- happened, and had woken up feeling as though only seconds had passed.

Obviously, Morau’s delusions had aggravated his own defect. The man was dangerous, but actually  _ doing _ anything about it was problematic. The only evidence -- the security footage -- would expose Weyoun along with him.

He stowed the statue and the disk in a return vent in the wall. Very few people had access to this briefing room, so he could be reasonably certain that no one would find them before he had the time to think up a more permanent solution. In the meantime, he had a favor to call in to an old friend. 

 

Hesitantly, Weyoun knocked on the door to the main security office, where Zheilan’s name had been engraved both in its native form and in Kardasi.

“Come in,” said the voice behind the door, and Weyoun entered with a fixed smile. Inside, Zheilan was scrolling through security credential applications, rapidly approving and denying them. There must have been hundreds of thousands to sift through as Cardassian officers were integrated into the Dominion security systems. 

“I don't envy you,” said Weyoun.

Zheilan didn't pause or look away from his work, but a smile spread over his face. “I was wondering when you'd finally pay me a visit,” he said. “What can I do for you?”

“I need some footage erased. The feed from briefing room three, from 0700 to 0830.”

Zheilan glanced at him with a raised eyebrow. “You want me to destroy footage.”

Leaning onto the desk, Weyoun pulled his best embarrassed face. “It's for Dukat. A rather...delicate personal matter he'd rather not have on the record.”

“I see,” said Zheilan, waving away the security credentials. He quickly cycled through a map of the building, highlighting the briefing room. “Oh dear. It looks like the cameras in that room have malfunctioned. Haven't recorded a thing all day. Anything else while I'm at it?”

“No,” he said. “Thank you.”

Zheilan went back to the credentials with a shrug. “Just remember me the next time you’re making assignment recommendations.”

“Of course.”

 

Weyoun's next stop was the office he'd been assigned, where he locked the door and logged into the Dominion archives. 

“Initiate record search, personnel,” he said, keeping his voice low. 

_ “Specify parameters.” _

“Morau, Institute for Genetic Improvement.”

_ “No match.” _

He did a double take. So Morau had lied about being attached to the Institute. Not all that surprising.

“Morau, geneticist.”

_ “No match.” _

“Morau, Vorta,” he snapped, exasperated.

_ “No match in this database. One match in linguistic database.” _

“Play it.”

_ “Morauir: archaic. Aberrations. Vorta unsuitable for service.” _

Weyoun laughed to himself and continued the search, comparing the files of the entire staff of the Institute for Genetic Improvement to the man he'd met that morning, combing through lists of defective clones, terminated lines, anything he could think of. There was no trace of him. He was like a ghost. 

If he hadn't seen him on the footage, Weyoun might have thought he'd imagined him.

When it was clear that he wasn't making any progress, he headed to his new quarters. The walls and shelves were still bare. None of his things had been transported down yet. No comforting collection to tether him to his memories. He stripped off his uniform, running his fingers over the small tattoo on his bicep. His iteration number, printed on his skin. Five. Not Seven. It was comforting -- it assured him that he wasn't losing his mind. 

He considered this day a warning. He would do whatever he had to do to suppress his abilities. He would bury his defect and commit himself completely to his work.

Everything would be fine.

He went to sleep and, for the first time in weeks, he didn't dream. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> To be continued in "Devil's Due"


End file.
